


Requiem

by little0bird



Category: Star Wars: Rebels
Genre: Humans have shorter lifespans, M/M, Next best thing to dying in bed, Wakes & Funerals, kalluzeb - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-31
Updated: 2021-01-31
Packaged: 2021-03-17 17:53:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29104359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/little0bird/pseuds/little0bird
Summary: Alexsandr Kallus' funeral.
Relationships: Alexsandr Kallus/Garazeb "Zeb" Orrelios
Comments: 17
Kudos: 39





	Requiem

The sight of Zeb dressed in head-to-toe white without even a touch of blue or green was unnerving, but not as unsettling as the droop of his shoulders. Channele had only ever known her father’s straight-backed, proud posture. Still more disconcerting the Alexsandr-shaped void next to him. She’d never been able to picture one without the other. Despite his physical absence, his presence still hovered in the house. From the polished cane propped against the wall next to his side of the bed to the tin of Gatalentan tea in the kitchen. Garazeb Orrelios was their family’s soul, but Alexsandr Kallus had been its beating heart.

‘Ba?’

One of Zeb’s ears swiveled back at the sound of her voice, but he kept his gaze locked on the milky-white urn cradled between his hands.

‘Ba… it’s time…’ Channele continued.

Zeb let out a sigh and nodded, hands tightening around the urn for a brief moment before he rose from his perch on the foot of the bed and shuffled into the sitting room. He handed the urn to Channele long enough to draw the hood of his robes over his head. He took the urn back and stood in front of the door, and then took in a deep breath, straightening his shoulders. Mikken touched the panel to open the door, and Zeb strode to the path to the village square, with Channele, Mikken, and Avramet trailing behind.

Channele matched Zeb’s plodding pace, tucking her hands into the sleeves of her own robes. He looked neither right, nor left, but straight ahead, dry-eyed, clutching the urn to his chest, once again setting the example for them.

Zeb scowled at the sky overhead. It shouldn’t be a pleasant early summer morning. If anything, he’d hoped the day would have dawned grey and drizzly to match his mood, but no such luck.

Of course he’d known from the very beginning back on Lothal that this day would come. Humans had a much shorter lifespan than Lesat did. It didn’t make it hurt less. They considered themselves lucky to have had four years together when the Empire fell. Every year after that was a blessing. But fifty of them hadn’t been enough. He’d missed the small signals of Alexsandr slowing down, attributing it to him finally learning to unclench a little and relax.

He must have known the end was near. He made his way to the old bench on the lakeshore, muttering something about wanting to warm his old bones in the sunshine, with his halting, limping gait, punctuated with the cadence of his cane thumping the gravelled path.

Zeb found him a couple of hours later, slumped against the corner of the bench. Were he not so still, he might have thought Alexsandr was sleeping. Except Alexsandr never slept unmoving like that.

Zeb gently closed Alexsandr’s sightless eyes, then sat on bench next to him, as he had so many times before, and cradled his mate’s cold hand between his own, watching the sun slip behind the mountains.

They were still there when darkness fell and Channele’s glowrod illuminated the shoreline. Zeb refused to relinquish Alexsandr’s hand as Mikken and Avramet carefully arranged his body on a stretcher, and kept it pressed against his heart on the slow journey back to the house.

The Revered Masters’ acolytes were already there, waiting to wash and prepare Alexsandr’s body. Their mournful chants soared to fill each nook and cranny of their home, then spilled into the village, where the voices of their neighbors took up the thread of the dirge. Channele, Mikken, and Avramet stood with their arms around one another, chanting quietly with the acolytes. Zeb opened his mouth to join them, as custom demanded, but not a single sound emerged.

The song faded to a distant echo. The splash of water and the slap of a cloth against bare skin dissipated against the roar in his ears. Everything sounded as though it was at the end of an interminable tunnel. Zeb stared at the old hologram he’d given Alexsandr when each day was a revelation. He reached up to switch off the transmitter, but let his hand fall back to his side. He turned just before the acolytes drew the shroud over Alexsandr’s face and motioned for them to stop, just for a moment. Zeb bent and pressed his lips to Alexsandr’s forehead in a tender, lingering kiss. He straightened and stepped back, allowing the leader of the acolytes to drape the linen over Alexsandr’s face.

Six Honor Guard members trooped through the open door of the house. One by one, each of them stood in front of Zeb and saluted him, then claimed a place on either side of Alexsandr’s body. They hoisted the shrouded figure to their shoulders and slowly marched outside, the acolytes trailing behind, followed by Zeb, Channele, Mikken, and Avramet.

The village worked fast. The bier in the labrynth in the square had already been assembled. The Honor Guard lowered Alexsandr to the bier and moved to the perimeter of the labyrinth. Zeb led the children in the brief prayers to Ashla, moving slowly from the North, to the East, then the South, and finally the West, before returning to the North. Zeb held out his hand to the Revered Master holding a flickering torch.

With a shuddering sigh, he flipped the torch into the bier and squeezed his eyes shut as the dry wood caught and erupted into flames.

The urn he now carried up the side of the mountain was all that was left of the physical remains of Alexsandr Kallus.

The reliquary was cool and dark after the blinding sunshine. The small crypt for the Kallus-Orrelios clan held two gleaming white urns. One was Gron’s and the other was Chava’s. Zeb ran a thumb in a gentle caress over the plate attached to the urn bearing Alexsandr’s name, then placed it on a shelf. He took a small measure of comfort knowing one day, his own urn would reside here, next to Alexsandr’s. He took a step back, raised his hands to chest height, and curled one into a fist, covering it with his other hand, then bowed his head.

‘Goodbye, Alex,’ Zeb whispered. ‘For now.’


End file.
